


raspberry-scented shampoo (can't hide the scent of fire)

by sunflower_8



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Childhood Trauma, Depression, Eating Disorders, M/M, Melancholy, Referenced Death, Self-Hatred, Sort of Implied - Freeform, Trauma, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25869499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8
Summary: all that’s messy, really, is the attic, and there’s mostly photographs in there that he told himself he would check, he promised his boyfriend he would get around to it, but he can’t bear to look at them. they’re of his parents and him, back when he had rosy cheeks and more genuine smiles.he thinks, sometimes, that it’s selfish. to look at those pictures. because he should appreciate them, should look back at them with fond memories and a slight twinge in his chest, but he hardly feels anything. he still wasn’t happy in those photos, is the thing, even if he was five years old. he’s not sure he’s ever been happy. he’s not sure his parents were, either.(or, it's the anniversary of his parents' death.)
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 5
Kudos: 160





	raspberry-scented shampoo (can't hide the scent of fire)

in all but symbolism, the night is useless. 

he occupies this time with playing miscellaneous app games, scrolling through social media and liking random posts, swiping up every text notification he gets. in the scene set by a melancholic 5:00 pm, on the anniversary of his parents’ death-- he finds that focusing on anything else is excessively difficult.

it’s not like what he is doing now is particularly meaningful, is the thing. and he’s worthless, as is his time, which is a fact he came to terms with long ago (maybe this day, fifteen years ago), but  _ still,  _ he would like to think he has  _ some  _ use that could be allocated to something  _ better  _ than  _ this.  _

but, he can’t bring himself to get up and clean. all that’s messy, really, is the attic, and there’s mostly photographs in there that he told himself he would check, he  _ promised  _ his boyfriend he would get around to it, but he can’t bear to look at them. they’re of his parents and him, back when he had rosy cheeks and more genuine smiles.

he thinks, sometimes, that it’s selfish. to look at those pictures. because he should appreciate them, should look back at them with fond memories and a slight twinge in his chest, but he hardly feels anything. he still wasn’t happy in those photos, is the thing, even if he was five years old. he’s not sure he’s ever been happy. he’s not sure his parents were, either.

he could garden, but they already found that the tomato plant is pretty much dead, and the blackberries need a few more days before he can pick them, so it’d just be weeding, and he’s  _ tired.  _ he shouldn’t be-- he doesn’t even have a  _ job _ \-- but he’s so, so tired. careworn bones pulled down by droopy eyes, slight shadows despite sleeping  _ just  _ the right amount of time, waking up after satisfying sleep to endless exhaustion, pushing through every day on the liminal line of collapse, running on manic adrenaline and self destruction, and

he is  _ tired.  _

(he remembers taking a shower with his boyfriend, laughing and joking. the pressure was hard, and the water was hot, and it took five minutes for komaeda’s knees to buckle in fatigue. all he could register through overwhelming nausea and dizziness was the faucet shutting off, despite the unwashed conditioner in his hair, and his partner hoisting him up. 

they stopped showering together, after that.)

he still hates himself, as he slumps into the sofa, clicking sudoku squares and losing every game, unable to focus on something he’s good at, surrendering to playing something with bright flashy squares instead. clicking, clicking, clicking-- when he gets bored, he scrolls through social media, liking all the posts of people he’s ghosting (all of mioda’s singing clips, with all-caps captions; a cake sonia baked on impulse; aesthetics tsumiki must make in her free time). he closes out of the app, then, when he sees an image his boyfriend posted of the two of them, together. 

they started dating two years from tomorrow, and the stark contrast of his parent’s death with finding his entire world leaves him confused, numb, and even more tired.

he just wants to sleep, but he can’t. there’s melatonin somewhere, but hinata’s coming home, soon, and he’s too tired to look for it, anyway. maybe he can take a nap with the other (god knows hinata’s exhausted, too, even more than he is, that it’s all they can do to run each other down until they’re both tired enough to go to bed).

when he clicks open the social media, again, he registers how hungry he is. (it’s easy to shove that aside, put it somewhere else. it’s not like he’s neglecting himself, after all, not really. he just puts it off until he absolutely has to, takes the smallest portion that can still fit a lie, an increasingly smaller portion as his guilt simmers into casualty-)

hinata sends him a text, and he opens this one, averting his eyes from the 37 missed texts he has. his friends have learned, by now, that he rarely replies on his ‘bad days’, and the service provider will figure it out soon, too. 

_ hinata: Omw _

_ hinata: Should I get some food or smth _

he sighs, lightly. his grip on the phone tightens.

_ you: if you want! _

_ you: i don’t care either way, haha _

_ hinata: Alright _

_ hinata: See you _

_ you: mhm <3 _

_ hinata: <3 _

it still makes him stop breathing, when he sees hinata send a heart.

(when hinata first told him  _ i love you,  _ he completely stopped breathing, asphyxiating on the very want that rests in the pit of his stomach, awakened with vitriol of undeserved affections. he almost couldn’t move, if that wasn’t a step too far, a step too  _ suspicious--  _ but he  _ was  _ unable to speak, for a while. he had weakly smiled, then, and tucked his head against hinata’s neck,

and he couldn’t speak. but maybe hinata knew that.)

he collects himself, adjusts the blanket laying over his thighs (it’s burning hot, even with the fan on) and turning his phone off. he loses himself in the entirely ordinary living room-- even though there are traces of him and hinata in their home, it still feels so distant to him-- memorizing every detail of a place too clean, too human, too  _ their own.  _

he almost hates it.

when hinata comes home, he pulls into the driveway, opens and closes the door in the same soft way that still makes the entire house stutter, and he takes off his shoes as he calls out, “hey, ko.”

“hi, hajime,” he says with almost a wince. hinata asked him, a long time ago, to stop calling him  _ hinata-kun.  _ hinata prefers hajime-- which makes sense, for lovers, just not for them-- and he adjusts accordingly. even though hinata still calls him  _ ko.  _ “how was work?”

“same as always,” he laughs, a slight edge to it. “how were things here?”

he shrugs. “same as always,” he echoes. 

(maybe, at a different time, it would be teasing.)

hinata nods, bites his lip, shifts to sit on the couch beside him. he wrinkles his nose at the blanket, moving it off the other with the almost scolding, “it’s summer.” it doesn’t mean much, to him, because hinata’s embrace is warmer than anything else could be.

“sorry,” he says, tucking his face against his neck. he wonders if it could leave an imprint, there. komaeda’s face, unapologetically seeping into someone as wonderful as hinata’s skin. it’s a different caliber of comical.

“you don’t have to apologize,” hinata grumbles, but there’s a bit of softness in his expression, still. (how much lives in reserves? how long until komaeda uses every drop up?) “you okay?”

he hums in lieu of a reply. hinata doesn’t have the best memory, but he probably knows the significance of the date. knows that this happens often. knows that usually, it’s an explosive breakdown with torn up pictures (and he still needs to clean the attic). knows that this year, it’s something more muted. it doesn’t take an exceptional memory to know every obnoxious characteristic of the waste of space you happen to live with, komaeda thinks. 

hinata lets out a soft exhale, turning komaeda’s face to kiss his forehead. the press of his lips always feel like a scalding heat-- not that he would ever tell the other that-- that brings a sort of twisted catharsis. it’s odd, how komaeda uses him unintentionally, in this sense. hinata does it again, in close time proximity, maybe to prove a point (or maybe just a silent need for closure). “it’s today, huh.”

komaeda gives a curt nod. he can hardly bring himself to speak, again, though there isn’t an overwhelming reason as to why. “it’s okay,” he pseudo-reassures, as if hinata needs the comfort, as if hinata lived through the historical plane crash that stole the lies of komaeda’s childhood and set it aflame, leaving him with a guilty conscience and numb acknowledgement that there was hardly anything to burn. 

(though, his parents were burned. haha, his parents were  _ scorched,  _ and his five year old self looked at their corpses with bleary eyes, determining  _ then  _ that he hates ugly things. 

his mother was so pretty. his father was so handsome. and he was the disgusting mesh of flesh that survived the hijack, the meteor, the fall. what a pity.)

hinata tugs him a bit closer, trying to make him feel secure (but komaeda isn’t sure he can feel that, anymore). “yeah,” he murmurs against komaeda’s temple, “it’s okay. i’m here, y’know, and everyone else is too. we’ve got you. we won’t leave you alone again.”

and it’s so easy to say that, with a forced optimistic future outlook. it’s so easy to pretend that the possibility of this (already shaky) relationship falling apart is null. but, if it does (maybe even  _ when  _ it does), who would be there for komaeda? who would still stick around for him? his life isn’t hinata’s, but his friends are hinata’s, and his kitchen is hinata’s, and his body is hinata’s. 

(hinata would say that’s wrong. komaeda would retort that their arguments are hinata’s. even though that isn’t true. even though komaeda is just trying to prove a point that hardly exists aside from internal fallacies and historical records).

komaeda almost wants to scream, say that he can still feel his mother’s arms around him, sometimes, from the one hug the two of them shared, just moments before he knelt beside her disfigured corpse. he almost wants to tug at hinata’s sleeve like an impertinent  _ child,  _ profess that he  _ is,  _ that he’s not sure he’s ever  _ grown  _ from the tragedy-marked kid that covered the newspapers. he almost wants to clutch at his skin, ask why he stays, even when komaeda’s raspberry-scented shampoo can’t hide the scent of fire.

but, he just smiles, something sad and empty, and kisses hinata’s cheek. his phone goes off with a notification, and his eyes glaze over the abundant,

_ souda: soul bro, u and OTHER soul bro should come over and hang w/ me and fuyu _

_ fuyuhiko: hey where the fuck are you _

_ sonia: [to nanami, hinata, komaeda] We should totes play Mario Kart again soon! As Americans say, I will beat all your asses!  _

_ nidai: KOMAEDA! You MUST join me and Owari this SATURDAY to TRAIN!! Get yourself in shape with us! We’ll have a SHITload of fun! _

_ nanami: [to sonia, hinata, and komaeda] mmm… okay…  _

_ hinata: [to sonia, nanami, and komaeda] Keep telling yourself that Sonia _

and he turns it off. hinata’s chin found a place on komaeda’s shoulder, looking over all the unread messages with a slight frown. komaeda just turns his head, finds hinata’s lips, and allows himself the bitter indulgence of his warmth, one met with loving reciprocation.

(he wonders if his mother would let him try on her lipstick. or if his father felt the forehead kiss komaeda gave his post-mortem body. or if either of them would accept his relationship with hinata.) 

when he pulls away, he smiles with carefully tucked away cynicism, and says, “it’s okay,”

and they both breathe in the lie, as they’ve done a thousand times before. 

**Author's Note:**

> have a good day, lovelies


End file.
